


Astronomy

by breathewords



Category: Riverdale (TV 2017)
Genre: Astronomy, Drabble, No Plot/Plotless, Slam Poetry, get descriptive with it, is that allowed?, word vomit
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-05-19
Updated: 2018-05-19
Packaged: 2019-05-08 21:18:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,185
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14702523
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathewords/pseuds/breathewords
Summary: Dark sides. Dances. Mysteries. Motorcycles. // Strawberries splashing into champagne. // Broken guitar strings. Broken promises. // Northside. Southside. Loner. Leader.





	Astronomy

**Author's Note:**

> I'm still procrastinating a full-length fic.

Betty is the moon.

Bright hair and a brighter future. Soft sweaters and softer skin. Soft leather. Pancakes with sweet syrup for breakfast on Sunday mornings. Sweet smiles when she’s feeling down. Editing out Oxford commas. Sneaking out under her mother’s nose. Calloused hands on her cashmere sweater. Filed nails digging into flannel. Crescent scars on her palms. Dark sides. Dances. Mysteries. Motorcycles.

When she lets herself laugh, it’s contained, but it still lights up the room. Melodic, like a lullaby. A chuckle she tries to hold in when her best friend mispronounces a word. A giggle when Veronica mutters something insulting about Cheryl at cheer practice. Something louder, less restrained, when she’s had a few drinks at a party and Kevin has the whole room in hysterics. And her real laugh, head thrown back, starts twinkling in her throat, at her boyfriend’s sarcasm.

When lets herself break, it’s at night. Silent tears in Polly’s arms. Screams absorbed by her pillow when her sister’s gone. Shaking in the deafening silence. Hot tubs. Unknown phone calls. Breakups in the dark. “She doesn’t want to see you anymore” and “How many times are we going to do this?”

Not many. Not for long, at least. Because when she loves, there’s no half moon. She lights up the sky, and everyone sees. She glows brighter in the darkness. Dark leather and dark bars. Dark liquor, even though “vodka has fewer calories.” Dark-haired boys. Dark secrets. Dark wig.

She works in the dark. Lights off in the Blue and Gold office. Blinds drawn when that unknown caller ID flashes on the screen of her phone. Spotlight abandoned when she takes the stage at the Whyte Worm. Sun down when she scrubs blood, disposes of a body, goes back for the phone, holds tight to Jughead while they watch a sinking car. No stars as she mops up his blood as he lies on the forest floor. As she takes a shovel to her father’s head. She likes the dark, anyway. It doesn’t scare her. It’s where she belongs.

Betty is the moon.

* * *

 Veronica is a meteor.

Crashing into Riverdale in flames of glory. She’s strawberries splashing into champagne. Mimosas before school and martinis after. Manicures with her best girl and making out with her boy. Limo rides and Ladurée. _Breakfast at Tiffany’s._ Smooth pearls and craters where she steps. A family that moves too fast, too fast for her to catch up, so she gets left in the dust.

When she smiles, it’s blinding. White teeth that can ignite hearts and end worlds. A smile used to mend, to manipulate. A smile used as her greatest weapon. A smile to hide the fact that she misses Daddy, a smile to cheer up her best friend. A smile despite the fact that Daddy is a liar, a smile when she catches her boyfriend singing in the shower.

When she frowns, it’s with fury. It’s un-contained. It’s in defense of those she loves. It’s a kick to the gut, a punch to the face. It’s something she feels all the way down to her core. It’s choking on “I love you’s.” It’s “I don’t follow rules, I make them.”

Which she does. Because she can. Because no one can stop her. Not her mom, not her dad, not the force of all the New York Families combined. She forges her own path and doesn’t care if she leaves a trail. Money in her wake. Stiletto heals in the mud that floods the Riverdale streets. Pearls on the bathroom floor. Letterman jackets outside her door.

She works under pressure, crumbling slowly. Running for office. Running from her problems. Buying a diner. Selling her legacy. Burning by the fire. Burning out.

Veronica is a meteor.

* * *

Archie is the sun. 

Red hair blazing. Beacon of light. Blinding smiles. Burgers with his best friends. Long drives with his girl. Fast runs with his dog. Fixing up cars and breaking hearts. Broken guitar strings. Broken promises. Whirlwind romances and rays of hope. When you’re so high in the sky, you have a long way to fall.

He walks in the light. Up with the sun. Upbeat singing. Working construction. Cutting Christmas trees. A protective arm. A shoulder to lean on. Saving the girl. Sharing a milkshake. The winning touchdown. The final note.

He walks in the shadows. The thrill he gets from holding a gun. The twisted feeling in his gut when he washes his father’s blood down the drain. The anger that bubbles in his throat when the stares down a camera and threatens a serial killer. The tears he holds back as he climbs into a coffin. The sadness in his bones when his love is unrequited. The concern in his eyes when Betty won’t touch her phone and Jughead shows up at Pop’s with bruises all over his face.

He works with others. With Val to write a song. With Betty to catch a killer. With Jug to finish a pizza. With Veronica to forget his nightmares. Because he trusts people. Maybe too easily. He trusts his mother, who leaves him anyway. He trusts his first love, who never loved him back. He trusts a mob boss, who manipulates him. He learns to trust himself.

Archie is the sun.

* * *

Jughead is a blackhole. 

Dark thoughts hidden under dark hair hidden under dark wool. Black coffee. Layers. Secrets. Cigarette smoke. Serpents and Southside and sinking, sinking, sinking. Ramen noodles and splurging for a burger. Switchblades. Soft hands in his hair, on his neck, on his chest. Black eyes. Stolen kisses. Broken glass. Anything to make her happy. Heartache. Sleeping under the starts. Heartbreak. Newsprint. Engines revving. Typewriters. Mother begging. _In Cold Blood._ Falling in love. Fast and hard. Sucking everyone else in with him.

He’s got a soft side. So soft, it bruises easily. So he protects it. Until one day, when he climbs up a ladder only to fall straight through the ground. “Hey there, Juliet” and “Until it sticks.” Kisses on her palms. Hands on her cheeks. Heart in her hands. Sharing a booth. Sharing a book. Solving a murder. Saving each other.

He’s got a dark side. So dark that sometimes, he can’t see through it. Weeping on the floor of the trailer, in the phone booth, in the Pop’s booth. Staring through the bars at his father. Standing at the bar and wondering why he bothers. Snake bites. Gang fights. Veiled threats. Slicing skin. Breaking bones. Breaking up. Giving up. Giving in. Last goodbyes. First punches. Blood in the water.

First kisses.

Two sides of the same coin.

Northside.

Southside.

Loner.

Leader.

He works alone. On his novel. On science projects. On newspaper articles. Alone in the projection booth, the cafeteria, his own home, his own head. Because he’s been left before. And it’s always been _his_ fault. _His_ responsibility. Because he’s a blackhole. It’s what he does. He drags people down. He destroys. He’s just trying to help. But he’s not a hero. Not on his own.

He needs a queen to rule his kingdom.

Jughead is a blackhole.


End file.
